


electrocution

by fairbanks



Series: goretober 2018 [17]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Do Not Archive, Electrocution, Erotic Electrostimulation, Goretober 2018, M/M, Sexual Content, it's not a crack ship if they met once ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 05:27:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16402160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairbanks/pseuds/fairbanks
Summary: Salesa has a little accident with an artifact and Peter's happy to help.





	electrocution

  1. **electrocution**



  
  


This is how Salesa first heard of the Lukases:

 

“Lord,” Leitner mutters under his breath, flipping paper after paper on his desk like a man of important business, or at least trying to seem that way. Salesa worked for Jurgen Leitner only a short time but he knows him well enough to see a genuine tension in the man’s set shoulders.

 

A tension that he didn’t really want to make his problem, but sometimes curiosity got the better of him. “Problem there?”

 

Leitner looks up at him, face pinched but disapproval directed at an outside source so Mikaele takes it as a sign to come in from where he watched at the doorway. Closer he could see the papers were contracts, and in one hand Leitner held what looked like an invitation in black paper and gold ink. 

 

“Yes, I suppose a ‘problem’ is the best way to put it,” Leitner informs, shifts another stack of papers before giving up and letting the black card down on the desk. “I’ve received an invitation to an event held by the Lukases.”

 

“And?” Salesa probes, thinks of the name. He knows there’s a ship under the Lukas name, knows vaguely of the family so they must be rich or infamous, likely both. “‘Always thought parties were your home turf, so to speak. Good place to sniff out the rich and bored, isn’t it?”

 

“Indeed, but the Lukases are not your typical family,” Leitner answers, amused and exhausted as he plops back into his chair, gesturing for Salesa to take a seat as well. Mikaele does as Leitner gears up for one of his overly dramatic explanations. “The Lukases are the only family in England, and perhaps Europe, to have created a dynasty around some of the unnatural power that lurks in our world. Highly unusual, highly troubling and highly dangerous- I fear they may be trying to snipe my library, or at least parts of it.”

 

“So you think they’re inviting you to try and pinch a few magic books out of your pocket?” Mikaele can’t help but sound dubious. He was still young, then. 

 

“I’m not sure what they want but a most certainly don’t trust such an innocent invitation. They dabble in the power behind isolation, they are most certainly not to be trifled with.”

 

“And they’re throwing a party? Sound ah… well, besides the point,” offers Mikaele, and Leitner sighs. “Don’t go if you’re so concerned, what’s the problem?”

 

“What’s the problem indeed,” Leitner murmurs. He ends up sending a young man Mikaele had drinks with once and that nice young man never comes back.

 

When Mikaele leaves Leitner’s service, customer list in hand, he avoids making contact with any Lukases.

 

-

 

And this is how he first meets Peter Lukas:

 

“Oh, there’s that captain of the Tundra there,” Lee tells him, leaning in and conspiratorial as she points out someone on a distant dock. She was one of his best and oldest, the type that didn’t ask the wrong questions but knew when a few questions were necessary. She also didn’t poke around the shipments too much. That helped.

 

Lee was as much of a gossip as any sailor though, and Mikaele rolls his eyes but glances up to see-

 

“Hm? Where?”

 

Lee blinks, squints. “Hell, swear I saw him just a minute ago. You can’t miss him, pale as corpse. I heard there’s damn good money working in his crew, high turnover though.”

 

Mikaele snorts, remembers Leitner and his invitation in gold ink. “I know enough to advise keeping a wide berth. If they pay’s too good to be true-”

 

“-then so is the job,” Lee rolls her eyes this time, pats his shoulder. That should be the end of it but it isn’t. It never is.

 

He’s having a pint at the place closest to the docks that night, a regular spot for his crew and a favorite before a long voyage. Most might think he’d enjoy land while he could but Mikaele found there was nothing so bracing as the tang of salt in the air and a beer to go with it. Best to breath it in, let his bones settle with the knowledge that the pitch black waters out the window could kill him as easily as any sodding book.

 

Mikaele found comfort in that, really. The sea had no use for pointless cruelty, for twisting the knife. It just was and they existed around it, over it, on it.

 

“Nice view.”

 

It takes a great deal to startle Mikaele Salesa after everything he’d seen but yeah, the man suddenly seated across from him without a sight or sound to go with his arrival makes Mikaele jostle his drink.

 

The man laughs, a pleasant chuckle, eyes sparkling with mirth quickly swallowed by the emptiness there. Mikaele knows who this man must be immediately, if only for his corpse white skin. “Captain Lukas.”

 

“Oh, no introductions needed then? Sorry, really I am, didn’t mean to spook you. Forgive a man a chuckle, yeah? Not often a big guy like you looks shocked,” Lukas says, painfully pleasant, and offers a hand. “Peter is fine, really. Between captains and all.”

 

Mikaele considers leaving right there, getting as quickly out of the potentially disastrous scene as he can. There’s an edge to Peter Lukas that Salesa recognizes, a man who would find retreat just an excuse to chase. So Mikaele shakes his hand firmly and leans back in his chair. “Salesa will do.”

 

“Not the type for first names?”

 

Mikaele snorts, takes a drink. “Not with men I was personally warned against. I worked for Leitner, once upon a time, but I get the feeling you knew that.”

 

“Ah, old Jurgen,” Peter hums. He has his own glass full of something too dark to be any brand Mikaele knows. He’s fairly sure Peter didn’t have it before. “Talk about a stir there. But you were smart enough to escape with your limbs and mind- or a good enough amount to live the day to day. Impressive, really. A man who’s smart enough to look out for himself and leave anyone he has to behind… they’re a special sort.”

 

The compliment seems sincere, even if Mikaele knows it isn’t one he should take any pride in.  _ Isolation _ , Leitner told him all those years ago. “You only got your own skin in the end, wasn’t about to let Jurgen Leitner take mine down with him, bless his likely damned soul.”

 

Peter laughs, head tilted back and shoulders shaken. He holds up his drink and looks at Mikaele like he’s something worth looking at. “To Jurgen then.”

 

“To Jurgen,” agrees Salesa, and their glasses clink in a way he imagines is ominous.

 

-

 

He doesn’t see Peter often after that but he does see him. Peter has the good grace to be clear with his intentions, a little flirting, a little more business and a true interest in recruiting Mikaele, should Mikaele ever feel like signing on to something ‘a little more lucrative.’

 

“And a lot more like signing my soul away,” Mikaele tells him after a pitch, not the first and probably not the last. “No thanks, I think I’m fine as I am.”

 

“Can’t blame a man for trying, yeah?” shrugs Peter, and they watch Mikaele’s crew buzz around a man sized crate that wouldn’t stop a deep, ringing noise from inside. At the moment they were trying to figure out where to put it where it’d be the least annoying. Turned out the cargo hold let it ring right into the crew cabins. 

 

Peter continues. “Not many have the… constitution, I’d say, to enjoy the work. I think you could, with enough time.”

 

“Flattering, really Peter, but I’ll pass.”

 

Of course Peter grins at him, a hint of teeth. “Ah, it’s first name now?”

 

“Oh shut it,” Mikaele snorts, amused despite himself.

 

Eventually enough time passed that Mikaele felt tentatively sure Peter Lukas wasn’t going to kill or kidnap him in his sleep, send some creepy crawly thing after him, any number of unpleasant outcomes to getting the interest of a monster. Mikaele liked to think it was his use as a supplier, moving items in and out for the Lukas family via Peter usually. He preferred it be Peter, the rest of the grim Lukas lot were soul sucking to be around, left a deep ache in his chest after a long enough meeting.

 

Not that a night out with Peter didn’t leave him crawling into bed and feeling the weight of how few true connections he ever had in his life, a chilling dread of a future well and deeply alone. At least Peter was upfront about it and paid for the drinks.

 

It was this psuedo-friendly acquaintance that led Mikaele to ask for Peter’s help that first time.

 

Yang was an annoying bastard, all customs inspectors were, but when he touched that damned old crate and it slid open- well, Mikaele had been around the block enough times to know the man was skirting a dangerous line. He tried to warn him, don’t sleep, but sure enough the next morning the crate was closed and exuding a sickly heat.

 

“Hell,” Mikaele sighed and headed out to find the Tundra.

 

Thankfully it was in port, crew moving quietly about the deck. Rare to see any life on the Tundra but promising, meant Peter Lukas would be nearby if they were close to sailing out. Mikaele flags down a man, the one with the old whistle he knew to one of the mates, and asked where the captain was, it was urgent.

 

The man eyed him like he was a strange, dangerous sort for asking. “Captain’s here.”

 

“I figured as much, but where?” Mikaele asked, and of course he hears Peter from behind him.

 

“Problem, Salesa?”

 

Mikaele didn’t start, not that time, just turned to find Peter behind him with faintly quirked lips. The man had a fondness for his parlor tricks from time to time.

 

“Yeah, you have a minute?”

 

That was enough to get Peter off the boat and to Mikaele’s ship, listening to Salesa’s explanation along the way. When they reached the hold Peter knelt by the crate, looking it over but not touching. 

 

He clicked his tongue as he stood. “Nice piece you have here- one of our orders?”

 

“For the right price it could be,” Mikaele told him. He’d be happy to get it off his hands and the Lukases did seem the right buyers if the Institute didn’t come sniffing.

 

“Well, that’s for my lot to handle, we’re shoving off mid morning. This though- Yang was it? Annoying little bastard, isn’t he? Yeah, I’ll open it for you- though I bet you twenty pounds he didn’t make it and the crate’ll be empty.”

 

Salesa may have felt bad for Yang but a little bet never hurt anyone. “Deal.”

 

And Mikaele came out of that interaction twenty pounds richer and Yang with the sort of lasting trauma that meant Mikaele never saw the man again.

 

-

 

So that was the first time he went to Peter Lukas for a cargo problem, an easy enough experience he isn’t too unnerved at the idea of asking Peter for help with his current predicament. 

 

It’ll cost him more this time, Salesa has no doubt of that. He’s built up enough good faith with the Lukases, and enough use, that he’s reasonably sure Peter won’t ask for anything he can’t give. Worse comes to worse he could turn to the Institute but Elias was a shrewd businessman and would bleed him dry or worse, ask for a favor. His new Archivist was too wet around the ears to be any help from what Mikaele heard, which was a shame. At least with Gertrude he could probably get away with a statement or two, more bad dreams to the pile.

 

It’s be worth it to get this damned spark out of his skin.

 

The worst part is he  _ knew _ the glass bauble was dangerous, knew well enough it contained some Vast-touched malarkey he had no interest in investigating further than pricing and selling it off to Fairchild. He was careful, was always careful, but the innocuous little glass ball slipped from the hands of one of his crew during packing and- well, to be fair at least he was alive. Three of his crew closer to the shattering glass were electrocuted to crisps where they stood, blackened corpses smelling of ozone, char and meat.

 

Mikaele, on the other hand, dodged back and felt something akin to every damn muscle in his body constricting, pulled impossibly tight, all from his left arm. The pain was unimaginable, a vibration up every bit of him that lasted maybe a couple of seconds until everything was black. He woke up with the corpses still sizzling, flat on his back. That should have been the end of it, a shock survived, a few unfortunates to clean up. Happened in this business.

 

Except even now the muscles of his arm constrict and contract rapidly, an endless cycle of paralysis and pain up his fingers to his bicep.

 

This time the crewman with the whistle just points him to Peter’s cabin, says the captain is working but doesn’t see Mikaele and his familiar face away. It hurts to drag himself there, each step reminding him of the impossible state of his arm. Mikaele distracts himself with cursing Fairchild and his ilk twice over, in every language he can manage, ever passing nasty word that comes to mind.

 

There’s no parlor tricks when he makes it to Peter, just the man glancing up from the papers on his desk. “Mikaele- oof, don’t look so good there.”

 

“You don’t say,” Mikaele manages through grit teeth. His clothes were only singed, the worst of it the sleeve of his left arm. As Peter stands he sniffs the air, a knowing amusement slotting into place.

 

“That smells like ozone- let me guess, one of your artifacts bit back? You really should be more careful.”

 

“Ha, you’re a real card. I need-” Mikaele nearly buckles with a fresh wave of pain, stays on his feet but sways. Peter makes no move to help him, to brace him, just watches with the distant amusement closer to watching a mild prank settle itself than the agony Mikaele knows must be etched on his face. God damn Lukases. “I need your help.”

 

Those are the magic words, the ones that have Peter approaching with an interest he usually reserved for his next victim or a few pints in. “A favor for a favor?”

 

Mikaele weighs this, shudders against the bright jabs of pain up his fingers and damnit, he would be lucky if this didn’t do permanent damage. “A favor, within reason.”

 

“Deal,” Peter smiles, then nods to his desk. 

 

They walk over, Peter helping him out of his coat to get a better look at whatever the damage was. Mikaele already saw it so it came as no surprise to see his flesh raised in jagged angles, a pattern not unlike poor dead Crew’s scar though not a scar, not really. Whatever the wound was it looked more like something burrowing under his skin, puffing it up, lines of split skin in senseless patterns as it run up and down his arm, again and again.

 

Peter whistles. “Nasty indeed. What did this?”

 

Mikaele tells him, his source, the container, the stupid accident he now imagines must have been caused by dizzying vertigo, damn the Vast to hell. Peter nods along, examines it, and finally, faintly, touches his wrist at a clean patch of skin. 

 

The second he does everything stops in such a dizzying relief Mikaele almost misses how Peter jolts and shoots back. More so he almost misses the sound Peter makes, ripped from his throat and rasped in genuine shock. He doesn’t miss that little sound, and it lingers in his ears.

 

The pain is back almost immediately, lessened somewhat in intensity but made all the worse for the brief reprieve. Peter exhales, looks down at his trembling fingers, voice vaguely awed when he speaks. “Well, isn’t that interesting.”

 

“Yeah, a right riot of a time,” Mikaele hisses, flexes his reddened fingers and bites the inside of his cheek against the pain. That window of relief was too brief and too close still, tantalizingly so. “Do you want that favor or not, Lukas?”

 

“Tad cranky, aren’t you?” Peter’s hovering again, close but not touching, and Mikaele thinks of all the times he wanted to touch Peter, when they were a few drinks in and his caution softened just enough to wonder. It’s a good distraction, that memory of alcohol warming Peter’s skin to a more human color, for the few moments he clutches to the thought. “Has it gotten worse or better since you woke up?”

 

“Better I think, but only after you touched it,” admits Mikaele. “Hell, didn’t hurt much at all during.”

 

“That so,” Peter muses, and then touches his arm again. The effect is the same, instant relief like a deep itch scratched or cold water down a cracked throat. Mikaele exhales and drinks it in, a long and decadent breath, gathers his scattered thoughts enough to watch Peter’s eyes lit up with pain, skin trembling, his breath sharp.

 

There’s that sound again and this time Mikaele recognizes it, a groan caught in Peter’s throat, and he has so little time to process it before Peter jerks away again and the pain comes crashing back, lessened again ever so slightly.

 

“Better?” Peter manages after a long moment to wrestle his breath to order, and Mikaele nods. “Sounds like a build up that needs an outlet, might even go away on its own. Lucky you, yeah?”

 

“Lucky me,” Mikaele answers thinly. 

 

Peter nearly matches him in height, not quite as broad and built as Salesa but closer than most Mikaele came across. It’s a rarity to not have to look down as he steps into Peter’s space, so close he can watch the amusement clatter in the cavernous emptiness that was Peter’s gaze. “Of course you can go ahead and empty it out into someone else. Shame about Crew, yeah? Pretty little thing, probably would have gone wild for it.”

 

Peter lets Mikaele back him into the desk, leans back against it as Mikaele’s fingers and arm twitch in agony. “Heard the new Archivist is a bit of a masochist too, and wouldn’t that be a hilarious way to annoy Elias? Who knows how anyone else would react, of course. Not to be too metaphorical but I’m something of an endless chasm myself, comes with the territory. Enough empty space to smother any sparks.”

 

“The way I see it,” Mikaele grits out, “is you said you’d help me, not chatter away. So you’re going to help me.”

 

He places the flat of his palm against Peter’s ribs, unsatisfying and blocked by stark white cloth beginning to turn singed under his touch. Mikaele exhales in annoyances, reaches for the buttons of Peter’s shirt with useless fingers until he gives up and tears the shirt open, neat little buttons clattering to the floor.

 

Peter laughs, echoing, tugging the shirt off fully. “What a brute. Won’t even buy me dinner first?”

 

It is endlessly satisfying to place his palm against Peter’s skin, the fine hairs of his stomach curling and burning as Peter’s muscles jump and contract under his fingertips. Again the relief is palpable, a warm blanket on a cold day, envelops Mikaele so thoroughly he doesn’t bother biting back the soft moan of satisfaction as Peter’s pained breath follows.

 

Mikaele pulls his hand back, deals with the pain by enjoying the long, red marks he left on Peter’s skin. They’d be a special kind of nasty, peel and blister, maybe scar against pale skin if whatever horror that lived in Peter’s blood didn’t heal it fast enough. Mikaele never considered himself much of a sadist but there was something reverent in how Peter Lukas took pain, and something lovely still about red against white.

 

“So that’s how to shut you up,” Mikaele muses as he touches again, muscles melting as the pain drained into Peter. “Starting to think this is as much of a favor for you as it is for me, Lukas.”

 

He dares to get a little exploratory, presses fingers to scars he doesn’t know the story of and lets Peter’s shaking hands grasp at his shirt. It’s like all the air was ripped from Peter’s lungs, any attempt at speaking through the shocks choked and locked in his vocal chords. Mikaele watches Peter uselessly swallow, holds his touch against skin longer than before, and brushes his thumb up against Peter’s nipple.

 

_ That _ gets a noise, strangled out of Peter’s throat, drawn out as Mikaele takes his hand away and the constricting pain back into him. 

 

“Salesa,” Peter manages between gasps, all movement- trembling breath, shaking shoulders, eyelids fluttering. It makes him undeniably human, different than his typical stillness, worlds apart from the Peter Lukas who barely existed in the pub chair next to him unless Mikaele made the effort to know he was.

 

“First names,” Mikaele reminds, a quick brush of fingertips on Peter’s jaw sending the man’s teeth clicking. The pain is so much less now, heady rather than unbearable. Mikaele never saw himself as much of a masochist either but today was just a day of learning new things, wasn’t it?

 

“Mikaele,” Peter offers, and Salesa rewards him with the whole of his hand on the small of Peter’s back. 

 

Peter’s head slumps forward, rests weakly against Salesa’s shoulder. He can feel rather than see Peter’s palming his crotch uselessly, fingers too clumsy to hope to free himself. Salesa’s not a cruel man, reaches down with his free hand to help, pops the button and leads Peter to his half hard cock. 

 

“Go on,” Mikaele encourages, tone low as he tapped up Peter’s spine, small jolts that set Peter’s breath tight. “I want to hear that name, Peter.”

 

“Mikaele,” Peter mutters for him, too dazed for amusement. He can’t see Peter work himself but he can feel the tension throughout Peter’s body, the now soft shocks between them pushing Peter harder and faster as he dutifully repeats Mikaele’s name.

 

Peter comes with a ragged breath against Mikaele’s neck, just as Mikaele felt the last splinters of pain ease out of him. Peter may be smaller than him but it wasn’t much and it certainly didn’t make the boneless man any easier to pull up and settle into his office chair. Mikaele isn’t a cruel man so he takes his time cleaning Peter up with the same ripped shirt of before- the come drying on his hand, the damp around his eyes or the beading sweat at his brow. His skin is a mess of minor burns and Mikaele’s arm isn’t much better, but the pain he feels now is merely the flesh wound.

 

When he leaves then returns with water Peter’s more coherent, lips quirking as Mikaele hands the bottle over. “How sweet, you even stayed for the morning after.”

 

“Will you count that as your favor repaid?” Mikaele asks, and for once doesn’t push Peter away when he reaches for Mikaele’s belt loops, sliding to his knees with obvious intent as he popped the button of Mikaele’s fly.

 

“Not a chance, but I can offer you some quid pro quo in a certain area.”

 

Mikaele sighs, running a hand through Peter’s hair. “I always knew you were more trouble than you were worth.”

**Author's Note:**

> i think a lot about the end of Held In Customs where peter and salesa clearly had a bet going about if the statement giver bit it or not


End file.
